The Blood Knight - J. Gregory Keyes [26]
“Penby and his lot were supposed to waylay you in the woods. They should be back by now, but I don’t—I don’t know where they are. Did you kill them?”
“Yes,” she lied. One of them is dead, at least. “Is anyone else meeting them here?”
He cowered a bit more. “I shouldn’t.”
“Answer me.”
“Someone is supposed to meet them, yes. I don’t know a name.”
“When?”
“Soon. I don’t know, but soon. Penby said by this afternoon.”
“Well, then we had better go now,” Anne said, picking up the knife.
His features contorted. “I…Yes. I’m supposed to do that.”
Anne looked him in the eye as hard as she could. She didn’t understand what was going on here. Was the demon, terrible as she was, an ally? Certainly she had killed one of Anne’s enemies and seemed to have…done something to this one. But if whatever had followed her back from the land of the dead was friendly, why did she fear it so?
And there was still the possibility that this was some sort of a trick Wist was playing on her, though she couldn’t see the point of such a ruse.
“They didn’t tell me who you were,” he began, but stopped.
“If you had known who I was, would you have tried to rape me?” she asked, anger flaring suddenly.
“No, saints no,” he said.
“That doesn’t make it better, you know,” she said. “It still makes you a worm.”
He just nodded at that.
For a moment she wanted to reach into him with her power, the way she had reached into Roderick back in Dunmrogh, the way she had reached into the men at Khrwbh Khrwkh. To hurt him, maybe kill him.
But she rejected that. She needed him right now. But if it turned out to be some strange trick, she wouldn’t have any mercy.
“Very well,” she said. “Help me, Wist, and you may earn my protection. Go against me again and not even the saints can preserve you.”
“How can I serve you, Princess?”
“How do you think? I want to leave here. If the captain of the guard sees us, tell him the plans have changed and you’re supposed to take me someplace else.”
“And where will we go?”
“I’ll tell you that once we’re out of town. Now, bring me my weather cloak.”
“It’s upstairs. I’ll go fetch it.”
“No. We’ll go get it together.”
Nodding, Wist produced a brass key and fitted it into the lock on the door. It creaked open, revealing a narrow stair. He took a candle and started up. Anne followed to where the last stair ran apparently into the ceiling. Wist pushed, and the ceiling lifted into another dark room.
“It’s a storehouse,” he whispered. “Hang on.”
He went over to a wooden crate and reached in. Anne tensed, but what he came out with was nothing other than her cloak. Never taking her eyes off him, she settled it on her shoulders.
“I have to blow out the candle now,” he said, “else someone will see the light when I open the outer door.”
“Do it, then,” Anne said, tensing again.
He brought the candle near his face. In the yellow glow his features looked young and innocent, not the way the face of a rapist ought to look at all. He pursed his lips and blew, and darkness fell. It crawled on Anne’s skin like centipedes as she strained her eyes and ears, her hand on the hilt of Wist’s knife.
She heard a faint creak, then saw a widening sliver of not so black.
“This way,” Wist whispered.
She perceived his silhouette now.
“You go first,” she said, feeling for the door and catching its edge.
“Mind the step,” he whispered. She saw the shadow of his head drop a bit.
She felt for the ground with her foot and found it. Then she stepped into the street.
It was bitterly cold outside. No moon or stars looked down; the only lights were lamps and candles still burning here or there. What time was it? She certainly didn’t know. She didn’t even know how long she had been in this place.
The alcohol was still in her. Rage and panic had cut through it, and now she was starting to feel achy and sick, though the stupid feeling remained. The boldness it had brought was starting to fade, leaving a dull fear.
The shadow that was Wist moved suddenly, and she felt his hand close on her arm. Her other hand tightened on the knife.
“Quiet, Majesty,”